


lead me like a firebrand

by amorremanet



Series: lost in a tempest [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Champion Keith (Voltron), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Galra Shiro (Voltron), Gay Disaster Shiro (Voltron), Long Live Feedback Comment Project, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Rescue Missions, Reunions, Shiro (Voltron) is a Mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-14 19:59:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18059069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: On the scale of difficult things Shiro’s ever done, he expects rescuing Keith from a Garrison quarantine tent to fall somewhere on the higher end. Easier than living without Keith, but harder than bringing his. Of course, Shiro didn’t plan on having his rescue attempt crashed by three cadets, one of whom wants so badly to impress his hero (possibly by becoming a dashing space-hero).Also, Shiro realizes it’s a minor complaint, in the grand scheme of things, but the engagement ring was supposed to fit Keith perfectly.Shiro nods. He waits for Iverson to back up and quirk his hands like,“Come at me.”Silently, he rushes in and takes a swing while his body screams at him that this isIverson. The man who picked Shiro out, back when he was some raw, rough-edged, raging tempest of a boy with nothing but glimmering, unhewn potential.True to his word, Iverson doesn’t flinch when Shiro’s fist smacks his cheek, below his bad eye. Grunting, he topples to the floor. Even though time is short, Shiro kneels by Iverson, makes sure that he’s still breathing—“I’mfine,” Iverson hisses, cracking open his good eye. “Get Kogane and go be happy.”





	lead me like a firebrand

**Author's Note:**

> The second part in the series started by “ **[The Oncoming Storm](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15816282)** ,” written for _**[Atlas: A Shiro Zine](https://shancesupportsquad.tumblr.com/post/183127067557/atlas-is-finally-here-there-are-over-100-pages)**_ (available for free download, at the link).
> 
> This version also features a deleted scene between Shiro and Lance that didn’t fit into the official zine version (and I really hated cutting it, but…… c’est la vie, unfortunately).
> 
> Title lovingly stolen from one of Caliban’s lines in _The Tempest_.

Shiro holds his breath, looking to the sky for what _must_ be the fifty-third time tonight. Inky darkness, marred by little blots of light—nothing out of the ordinary. Certainly nothing like the etchings in the caves predicted. Heartless as ever, the stars glare at him as he paces outside his shack, twinkle-twinkling from so unfathomably far away. Worse, they glimmer like Keith’s eyes whenever he has a bad idea that promises to be fun.

Wind rustles Shiro’s ponytail, bites the back of his neck. Twisting his hand around the hilt of his old knife, Shiro shivers from this unwanted reminder of what he’s lost. As if Shiro needs anyone to point out an absence that’s frayed his nerves and clawed his bones since he saw the news, splashed all over the TVs in the teaching assistants’ office at the Garrison: _Kerberos Mission Disappears, Pilot Error._

At least the full moon has the decency to be impassive, bouncing off the blade with a familiar, faintly purple gleam. She doesn’t rub Shiro’s face in the increasing likely possibility: he might’ve missed something from one cave, or mistranslated the etchings in another, or run the numbers incorrectly while transposing the alleged prophecies onto actual dates…

Worse yet, Iverson might’ve had a point, two weeks ago. He came to see Shiro for Keith’s birthday, and said that his fallen protégé’s work sounded like a fairy tale. In his grief, Shiro might’ve told himself whatever implausible garbage he needed to believe.

He might have been wrong. About the Blue Lion, the Starchild, the Guardian Spirits. About the monsters. About Keith. About _everything._

Another breeze groans over him and Shiro sheathes his blade before the sharp edges look too tempting. Somewhere in the wilderness, toward the Canyon, a coyote cries out for its pack. High-pitched and bowstring tight, that wail shocks straight to Shiro’s heart. Stirs some raw, feral impulse deep in his bone marrow, sets his blood on fire, and makes his throat itch to howl back.

Facing against the wind, Shiro refuses to slouch or hunch his shoulders. Refuses to zip up his weathered, black leather jacket. Refuses to look back at his shack because if he does, he might give up. He might go inside, bury himself in his misery and the ratty sofa, and miss his shot at the single most important thing that he might do in his entire sorry life.

That’s when he sees it: something brilliantly red and too big to be a meteor, lighting up the sky.

Shiro’s breath hitches in his throat. His mouth goes slack, but his body jolts to life. He pats the inside-pocket on his chest—the box is still there. With the ring. Clambering into his hover-bike, Shiro snaps on his fingerless gloves. Keith’s matching set are inside the shack, sitting out on the coffee-table. He could still run back to get them.

But the bright red something plummets to Earth. Crashes somewhere on the other side of the hills—closer to the Garrison. Shiro can barely make out the halo of light that flares up. Jesus, there’s no time to hesitate. Keith can reclaim his gloves later, when they’re back together, as they should be.

As the hover-bike roars to life, Shiro whispers, “I’m coming for you, Baby.”

  


* * *

  


Setting off the explosives is easy. A few flicks of the lighter, then running like Hell in the opposite direction. They won’t harm anybody, but they go off big and bright and loud, like Shiro wanted.

Finding where the Garrison’s put Keith is similarly easy. They’ve got a quarantine tent lit up like a bonfire, bathing the desert in artificial light. As Shiro gets close, it hums with activity; he needs to be ready for anything. Before rushing in, he ties a black bandana over his nose and mouth. It exposes his telltale, blue-violet eyes, but at least it hides his inescapably fang-like teeth.

Getting past two of the med-techs is so easy, Shiro almost feels insulted. He kicks one into a wall and they stay down. The other, Shiro hurls over a table. Dimly, he hopes that they aren’t actually unconscious, that they’re doing the _smart_ thing and staying out of his way. You wouldn’t try to fight a tornado with a butterfly net, and no living being, whether of this Earth or not, will stand between Shiro and the table that Keith’s strapped to.

Except for the third hazmat-suited person. They _must_ be a Garrison higher-up, but stand there, rather than barreling at him, with their hands visible, but not held up in surrender. Are they deciding what to do? Waiting for backup? Hoping that Shiro gets infected with the residual traces of some alien germ that followed Keith back to Earth?

Shiro rolls his eyes. God, he doesn’t have time for this. He rushes in, throws a punch. But the third med-tech ducks out of the way. Shiro catches a brief glimpse of Keith—but he can’t process what it means. Not while he’s turning on his heel, one target still in play.

He halts when he spots them over by a set of outlets. With one hand held up, they crouch down and unplug something. Tracing his eyes up the length of slack, black wire, Shiro finds a microphone. He notes a camera sitting a couple meters away, no doubt sending video to the Garrison brass. The third med-tech nods at the wall behind them, at another microphone.

Wait. A Galaxy Garrison med-tech—someone who has the security clearance to be around Keith right now— _wants_ Shiro to cut the audio feed?

Something about this makes Shiro want to crawl out of his skin. Trusting someone he can’t identify? In his lifetime, Shiro’s likely done riskier things with less forethought—but if this means he and Keith can get out of here faster… Mirroring the med-tech, Shiro holds up his hands in a sign of good faith. When he unplugs the mic, the med-tech lowers their visor.

His mouth falls open as he stares at a familiar, distinguished face with cool, dark brown skin. Only one eye blinks back at him. The other was lost on a mission and its socket scarred over long before Mitchell Iverson ever met Takashi Shirogane. Fingers trembling, Shiro argues with his bandana. By the time he gets it off his mouth, Commander Iverson’s squeezing his shoulder.

“He’s alive.” Iverson nods toward Keith. “His left arm’s been replaced with some advanced cyborg prosthetic. No idea what it can do. I hated putting him under. He screamed like a hellcat—”

“Everyone’s safety was at risk. He’ll understand—”

“I don’t give a damn if he does or not.” Iverson’s voice is gentle as he tells Shiro, “I’m gonna get in view of the video feed. Knock me down for the brass. Then, take Kogane and run.”

His words make sense, individually—but all Shiro can spit out is, “…Sir?”

“They’re gonna lock him up in Area 51 if you don’t take him.” A spasm of disgust twists Iverson’s mouth into a deep scowl. “He’ll be a government guinea pig for the rest of his life, and you’ll be a goddamn _wreck_ for the rest of yours.”

Iverson removes a glove, violating no fewer than seven different Galaxy Garrison protocols. Important ones, at that. Behind him, a computer screens displays an official health and safety report, with block letters splashed across the top: _PENDING._

Regardless, he cups that bare hand around Shiro’s cheek. “I’ve told the Garrison’s lies. I’ve had it out with my husband over them. Watched you smoke your career and tear yourself apart because I couldn’t tell you the truth. You’ve suffered enough. Take your man and go.”

Shiro nods. He waits for Iverson to back up and quirk his hands like, _“Come at me.”_ Silently, he rushes in and takes a swing while his body screams at him that this is _Iverson_. The man who picked Shiro out, back when he was some raw, rough-edged, raging tempest of a boy with nothing but glimmering, unhewn potential.

True to his word, Iverson doesn’t flinch when Shiro’s fist smacks his cheek, below his bad eye. Grunting, he topples to the floor. Even though time is short, Shiro kneels by Iverson, makes sure that he’s still breathing—

“I’m _fine_ ,” Iverson hisses, cracking open his good eye. “Get Kogane and go be happy.”

“Thank you, sir,” is all Shiro says before springing to his feet.

He’s by the table in a flash—but he stalls when he sees Keith.

Up close, he’s corpse-pale, wrapped in a skin-tight black bodysuit and ragged purple shirt. He whines when Shiro touches his clammy forehead, brushes back Keith’s soft hair, still blacker than a moonless night, except for a long clump of bangs that’s gone pure white. With him lying down, Shiro can’t be sure whether or not Keith’s really bulked up under the skin-tight black bodysuit and ragged purple shirt. As Shiro slices through Keith’s restraints, the lights glimmer off the silvery surface of his new left arm.

Dimly, Shiro hears footsteps barrelling down the corridor. For both their sakes, he needs to get moving before Keith gets shipped off to Nevada and he gets hauled up on the treason charges. Yet, Shiro lingers. He traces Keith’s smooth scar with his fingers, rests his hand on Keith’s cheek. Although Keith doesn’t wake, he groans softly and turns into the contact.

“I’m sorry, Baby,” Shiro whispers, sliding one arm behind Keith’s shoulders and the other beneath his knees. Lifting Keith, cradling him to his chest, Shiro turns to run—

And skids to a halt just short of crashing into someone.

A skinny, lanky, stringbean-looking someone. Shiro had that same kind of build before he got his scholarship to flight school. But this stringbean distinctly isn’t Shiro’s past-self come to haunt him. Not with that pointy chin, those ferrety blue eyes, and that megawatt smile, zeroed in on—

“Shiro! God, I _knew_ it was you!”

Shiro chokes back a groan. “Cadet Esparza, I realize you aren’t required to listen to me anymore. _However_ …” Tightening his grip on Keith’s knee, he forces a smile. “I’m in the middle of something important—”

“Yeah, it must be a big deal, if it made you come back. We’re here to help!” 

He gestures at the doorway—and Shiro fixates on the big guy, about his own height, but with broader shoulders, a round belly, and messy hair held back by an orange sweatband, rather than tied in a ponytail. He slouches as if he expects to get chewed out.

“Cadet Garrett, please. I _need_ to get Keith out of here.” Shiro’s gotta sound dramatic, but if it gets his point across— “I already lost him once. I won’t do it again. Get out of my way.”

Puffing up, Lance loudly clears his throat. “You heard the senior officer—”

“I’m not _any_ kind of officer—”

“Hunk. Pidge. Move out!” He pushes them aside like parting the Red Sea, then grins at Shiro as if this should impress him.

Shiro thanks Lance as he dashes for his hover-bike. That’s the least impolite thing that he can do right now. He’s trying to get Keith secured when he notices: the interlopers followed him.

Shiro frowns as Lance hops into a sidecar. “What are you doing.”

Lance shrugs. “Uh, helping you save your boyfriend?”

Taking Lance’s hand, a third interloper climbs in beside him. Honey-colored eyes squint at Shiro—and God, if that isn’t Katie Holt in an oversized sweatshirt, her brother’s glasses, and a bad haircut, Shiro will eat a bowl of rusty nails.

She balks. “Are we all gonna fit in this thing?”

“It’s only meant for two people and light cargo. So, yes, we’re pushing it a bit.” Even so, Shiro waits for Garrett to get in, then gingerly shifts Keith into his arms. “Hold him tight, okay?”

Garrett nods, and maybe he has an opinion to share. But Shiro has a daring escape to finish pulling off. Anything Garrett says gets drowned out by the engine roaring, the desert flying past, and Garrison officials scrambling too slowly to stop them.

As they come up on a cliff, Shiro smirks. He didn’t ask for this team. Bickering, they narrate the action while Shiro needs to focus. They scream all the way through the dive he throws them into. At best, they’re rough around the edges.

But some of the Garrison’s best and brightest can’t stop them from speeding away. These runaway cadets might not be too bad.

  


* * *

  


Welcoming a bunch of AWOL Garrison cadets into his home is one of the last things that Shiro ever thought he’d do. Yet, as Shiro carries Keith inside—being as gentle as he possibly can because Keith is the most precious cargo in the universe and if any of Shiro’s translations are remotely accurate, then Keith’s been hurt more than enough already—the cadets trail into the shack behind him.

A triadic cacophany, Esparza, Garrett, and “Gunderson” crow at each other about how much trouble they are or aren’t going to be in for helping the fallen Golden Boy with his rescue mission. Shiro could easily smuggle them back onto campus, and honestly, they should’ve asked for that, by now. Except once he has Keith resting on the threadbare sofa, with his head propped up and his metal arm folded on his chest, Shiro looks up into the faces of three young people who all expect something from him.

Shrugging and shaking his head, Shiro guesses, “Food’s over there? Not that there’s much, but…”

Shiro gestures at a corner of his shack that happens to have a sink, a microwave, a coffeepot, miscellaneous dishes, and a mini-fridge. Aside from his can coffee grounds, he still has some leftover containers of takeout from a few nights ago, when Iverson decided to pay him another unexpected visit. There are the eggs that he gets from Old Joe, who has a farm about an hour west of here and pays Shiro in food for doing some repair work. In the cabinets, there are a couple bulk boxes of dried out rations, the kind that are loosely based on the Garrison’s work and get sold in town for utter peanuts. This should clear things up for these three overly bright-eyed faces, right?

When the cadets keep staring at him, Shiro tries pointing out different places around the interior of _his place_. “Bathroom’s behind you. The shower works, but don’t run the hot water for too long or I’ll have to go outside and fix it. And, uh, I’d rather not? Since Keith will probably want a hot shower when he wakes up, I’d take it as a kindness to him if you’d just… Not?”

Granted, Keith doesn’t seem _dirty_ , or even particularly grungy. The Garrison must have cleaned him up to some extent, going through the standard decontamination procedure. In a way, though, that leaves behind its own kind of grime that Keith will likely want to be rid of—and more importantly, Shiro still has three younger people borderline-gawking at him. Sure, Lance only looks starstruck, as if he can’t believe that he’s standing in Shiro’s home and being welcomed in as something vaguely adjacent to a guest. It makes Shiro’s skin crawl, but he’s dealt with worse than this before and maybe Lance will have more self-control in the morning.

Hunk Garrett and The Paper-Thin Disguise Artist Formerly Known As Katie Holt, however? They’re fixed on Shiro as if waiting for orders. Behind her brother’s owlish glasses, Kate-Pidge Gunder-Holt narrows her eyes like he knows something and she wants to pry it out of him. Garrett’s fussier, rocking from one foot to the other and rubbing the hem of his bright yellow shirt between his fingers. It isn’t much better, though. Poor guy looks like he needs permission to _breathe_ , much less let himself relax.

Shiro sighs. “You’ll have to share the bed if you want to sleep over? But it should be big enough, if you don’t mind sharing?”

“Not a bad idea. C’mon, Hunk.” Nodding, Pidge yawns. Shiro can’t tell if she’s faking or not, but she tugs on the big guy’s sleeve. “Let’s get in there before Lance tries to hog up the best spots.”

Letting himself get dragged away, Hunk calls over his shoulder, “Thanks, Shiro! I’ll make breakfast in the morning!”

Tacking on something half-incomprehensible about hospitality, Hunk edges the bedroom door shut. Which doesn’t give Shiro that much room to breathe, not least because it leaves him standing here, alone in the main area of his shack—with Lance.

Lance, who radiates nervous energy and won’t quit bouncing on the balls of his feet, but stays rooted in one place as Shiro shucks off his jacket and hangs it on the back of the door. Lance, who gasps as Shiro sets his sheathed knife on the coffee-table (between his old photo album and the silver prayer beads that belonged to Keith’s Grandfather), but doesn’t bother to explain himself. Lance, who splutters a string of half-baked syllables as Shiro takes off his boots, but doesn’t let himself say anything. Lance, who stormed into Shiro’s rescue operation like he had a monsoon or a thunderstorm pent up in his veins, but now hunches his shoulders around himself almost apologetically and seems intent on boring a hole through the floor with his eyes alone.

“I didn’t believe the things they said, you know,” he finally pipes up.

The file in Shiro’s hand clatters into his bathroom sink. Inhaling sharply, he knocks his forehead against the bathroom mirror. Rattles the miscellaneous personal items and bottles of pills that he keeps in the medicine cabinet. _Jesus_ , he keeps to himself, _get it together, Shirogane_ —this is what he gets for leaning too close while checking his canine teeth. At least he doesn’t need to file them down before Keith rouses. They look a bit bigger and sharper than Shiro likes, but not by enough to require any special attention. Merely enough to feel like they’re spiting him, given that he sucked it up and did his routine maintenance on them only a few days ago.

With a huff, Shiro digs up his toothpaste. Might as well brush his teeth and make it look like he had _something_ in mind when he came in here. Not coming up with an excuse for his behavior could all too easily give Lance room to ask questions that Shiro doesn’t want to answer.

Pointedly clearing his throat, Lance shuffles toward Shiro and leans on the threshold. He’s trying so hard to look cool, and smooth, and above it all. But the way he folds his arms over his chest ends up making Lance look like he needs to protect himself. Like he wants to make himself look smaller. Like he _needs_ attention, but he’s terrified of what might happen if he insists upon his own existence enough to get any.

Bottling up a sigh, Shiro tucks a long clump of bangs behind his ear so he can spit up. He’s carried himself like Lance is doing too many times to let it go without comment.

Before he can figure out what he wants to say, though, Lance blurts out, “The Garrison, I mean. I didn’t believe the things that they said about you?” Combing his fingers through his messy brown hair, Lance tries (and soundly fails)  to stand up straighter. “‘Cause after the Kerberos mission failed and they lost the crew? When you started to, like… Going off-campus? Coming back shift-faced? Babbling like you did about the truth being out there and stuff—”

“You _really_ didn’t believe what the Garrison brass said about me going crazy?” Over his shoulder, Shiro arches a brow. Silently, he dares Lance to lie to him. “Because I wouldn’t blame you, if you listened to them. Let’s be honest: I was acting pretty crazy. Talking about aliens when the official line—”

“Yeah, but… You’re _you_.” Lance throws this out there as if his meaning should be perfectly self-explanatory. His eyes go wide with earnestness and he balls one hand up in his sleeve. “A guy like you wouldn’t have gone off like that for no reason—”

“What reason do you need?” Shoving himself off the sink, Shiro stretches out his back. Rolls a crick out of his neck. Lance makes a confused sound as he follows Shiro back to the main area, and Shiro rolls his eyes at the sheet covering his pin-board.

Delicately working to take the sheet down, he rattles off some of the stuff he heard around the Garrison before he left: “I’ve been a risky bet ever since Iverson first pulled me out of the home and brought me to the Garrison. Nobody knows how I tricked him into thinking I was worth a damn. I’m a loose cannon. Doomed by my total lack of a good upbringing. I’ve always been unstable, I just lost the ability to hide it when they lost the Kerberos crew. Maybe I let myself get close to Keith because I was taking advantage of him. Maybe I was living vicariously through his success because it’s _obvious_ that he had more potential than I ever did…”

The complete silence from Lance compels Shiro to look at him.

The tight, wobbling expression twisting up Lance’s face makes him sigh.

“I know what they said about me,” he says by way of explanation. “I don’t blame them—”

“But you were, like? You were a _superstar_! You were my hero, man! I mean, with how hard you worked and what kind of pilot you were? With what you did to save that flight home from Titan?! How could you—” As Lance stops mid-thought, a cherry red blush erupts on his skinny cheeks. Swallowing thickly, he lets his shoulders hunch in around him again. While Shiro folds up the sheet, Lance folds in on himself. “D’you really feel like… Do you _really_ not blame them for what they said about you?”

“They treated me like a crazy person because I was _acting_ like a crazy person, Cadet Esparz—”

“You can call me Lance, I—” His cheeks flush darker still. “Please? I mean, you’re not with the Garrison anymore, right?”

“Can’t argue with that logic.” Crossing his own arms over his chest, Shiro steps backward until he’s standing beside Lance. Briefly, he debates whether or not any of this is a good idea — but before those doubts can rage too hard, Shiro nudges Lance’s shoulder with his own. “As I was saying, _Lance_? A guy can get pretty messed up, losing the love of his life. Then, the only other person who’s cared about him lately—”

“You mean Iverson? Or, like, did you mean your parents?”

“What parents?” Quirking his shoulders, Shiro scratches his nose. He tries to focus on the research on his pin-board, but God, the words and pictures are blurring together so badly… “My mom left me and my dad when I was too young to remember. And I haven’t had him since I was younger than Katie, so.”

“Wait, who the Hell is Katie?”

Shiro furrows his brow so deeply that his whole face scrunches up. Waving a hand in the direction of the bedroom only makes Lance give up a throaty sound like, _“I don’t know.”_ He flashes an apologetic grin, but still looks completely lost as he shakes his head. Except, as he’s on the verge of outing her, the knife on his coffee-table reminds Shiro that he has no room to judge anyone for keeping secrets.

“In the morning, try asking Pidge who Katie is. But don’t push if they don’t want to tell you,” he tells Lance with a soft sigh, letting himself slouch at the hips. He waits for a nod before picking up where they were before: “So, aside from Keith, Iverson’s the only one who cared about me and he was lying to me about everything. Garrison brass didn’t give him a choice. Meanwhile, everyone from the Garrison to international news outlets to this one uncle of Keith’s? They’re all talking about _‘Pilot Error’_ as if it means he failed at something—”

“But all it means is that we don’t _know_ what happened. That’s what they—” Getting a Pointed Look from Shiro makes Lance stop. For a moment, he watches Shiro lower a hand toward the floor, then nods in understanding. In a much softer voice, he explains, “Commander Iverson and Professor Montgomery. In class, they told us that _‘Pilot Error’_ can be a catch-all thing? Like, ‘We don’t have evidence of anything else and this is the only garbage we’ve got,’ right?”

“Yeah, but to the outside world? It still sounds like the Garrison is blaming Keith. Besides…” Scrubbing at his temple, Shiro returns to his giant display of research notes. “If any of what I’ve dug up in the Canyon is related to what happened on Kerberos? Most people wouldn’t want to hear the truth. It’d be way easier for them to believe that Keith did something wrong.”

Lance makes a noise as if he wants to say something back at this. Instead of giving in to that impulse, though, he takes a deep breath and joins Shiro in looking over the pin-board. More than anything else had done tonight, this makes Shiro’s stomach turn.

Considering he’s shown this work to Iverson, Shiro shouldn’t be so nervous—but it’s like he’s giving Lance a glimpse into some of the deepest, darkest, most private places of his mind. Behind everything else that Shiro’s put on the board lie his maps of the Canyon and surrounding environments. He’s scribbled all over most of them in black and red marker, a mix of English and what little bit of hiragana he still remembers. Most of the notes are probably gibberish to anyone but Shiro, but it makes sense; he’s largely written them while sleep-deprived. Photos of his findings from the Canyon litter the board, hanging there without explaining themselves. Lines of black string connect different pins to each other, showing which of Shiro’s post-it notes and/or pictures match with which locations on the map.

As Lance steps back closer to the whole mess, Shiro follows him. He wishes he could interpret Lance’s crumpled up expression. All he’s got is that Lance looks like one of those fat house-cats with the smushed in faces, who always look at least a little angry.

“Sooooo,” Lance needles. “This is what allegedly crazy genius prodigies get up to in their free time?”

Shiro shakes his head, swishes his ponytail against the top of his spine. “This is what kept me going after I got my dishonorable discharge from the Garrison.” He gives Lance a moment to balk or protest or whatever he feels like doing. When he only gets silence, Shiro huffs, pointing to a shot he grabbed up of what he’s been studying. “There’s a system of caves in the Canyon, mostly untouched by modern humans. They’ve all got carvings like these, telling versions of this story about a great blue lion.”

“Who in the heck ever heard of a blue lion, Shiro?”

“The people who put the carvings in the cave, I guess. _And_ it’s a magical blue lion.”

“Yeah. Because of course it is, right? So, what kind of magic does this lion have?”

“Quite a bit, actually.” Shiro points to a different picture, one that he’s taken more recently. “According to the story in one of the caves, the Lion could pick out certain special people and talk to them. Like, they were more tuned in with the energy that binds the universe together, and they could hear her in their heads—”

“Sounds cool. Gotta wonder what made them so freaking special, though.”

“Good question, and I don’t know.”

Lance sniffs, pursing his lips. “Well, now the Blue Lion sounds like a snob, if you ask me. Taking some people but shutting the others out?”

“She had good reason to regulate who got in touch with her or not.” Shiro points at a photo of etchings where the Lion seems to be using some kind of breath weapon. “To put a modern turn of phrase on it? She’s got ice beams. Some of the other carvings make it look like she can fire lasers and use some kind of sonic cannon. If some chosen warrior finds her, she can even fly.”

Lance snorts appreciatively. It might come off offensively, if not for the eager gleam in his eyes. “Man, this sorta thing only would’ve been in my wildest dreams, when I was little.”

With a chuckle, Shiro deadpans, “You spent your childhood having wild dreams of piloting a sentient, magical Blue Lion?”

“Well, no, not like this _exactly_ , but? You know, being a hero. Fighting monsters, saving people and probably the entire universe. Doing great things, bigger than anybody else could even dream of. Maybe with a whole team, if I could find one. Like _superheroes_ …” Tapping one of the other recent photos, Lance grins like he has an epically terrible idea that would probably be a lot of fun to chase. “What’s with all these freaky weirdos, then? Are they cat-people? Bat-people? Turtle-people? And what the cheese are they coming after the Blue Lion for?”

Shiro quirks his shoulders. “They’re the monsters that Keith and I are gonna fight. Assuming that he wants to—”

“Dude, why _wouldn’t_ he?” Clapping Shiro on the back, Lance beams at him like a human ball of sunshine. “His boyfriend just sprang him from Garrison containment. You guys are probably gonna be full-on outlaws. And there are monsters out there for you two to fight? Who _wouldn’t_ want to go on the lam and save the universe with you?”

Plenty of people, Shiro assumes. Probably most of the people on this insignificant blue planet.

Moreover, there are the photos that he took down after Iverson’s second-to-last visit. The ones with the etchings that he hoped he’d translated incorrectly. All about the star-child and how they got tortured by the same monsters who want to take possession of the Blue Lion… If Shiro’s even half-right about what might’ve happened, then never mind the idea of outlaw boyfriends fighting the space-monsters together. Shiro wouldn’t blame Keith for never wanting to see him again, much less never wanting to fight beside him against a mostly unknown foe.

For right now, though, Shiro sighs and gives Lance a long, sober look.

“I’ll take you and the others back to the Garrison, if you want out.” Hugging himself more tightly, Shiro can barely make himself look Lance in the eye. “I have theories, but no conclusive ideas about what we might be getting into. Getting chewed out by the brass might be better—”

“Dude, are you _kidding_ me? Did you not hear me about the superheroes?”

Shaking his head, Lance squirms between Shiro and the wall, and looks at Shiro as if this is the most important conversation he’s ever had in his young life. The earnest gleam in Lance’s eyes makes Shiro’s skin crawl. That hopeful smile makes gooseflesh crop up on his arms. Jesus, he can’t handle the _idea_ of Lance believing in him like it seems he could. The mere thought of that makes Shiro’s stomach churn like he’s going to be _sick_.

But ever undeterred, Lance tells him, “I mean, I can’t say for Hunk and Pidge? But whatever you’re working on in the Canyon…” He jerks a thumb back at the pin-board and his lips twitch like he doesn’t want to let himself grin, like he hasn’t already betrayed his excitement. “Shiro, this is all so much bigger than the Garrison. It’s too much for one person. Even two people…”

Lance smiles. “There’s a reason why the Garrison put us all in teams of three, right? Strength in numbers?”

Again, Lance makes an unfortunately solid point.

Worse, Shiro’s body feels so heavy, it’s like his blood’s been turned to plutonium. God, exhaustion will make his next plan difficult.

Regardless, Shiro pats Lance on the shoulder. “If you’re serious about that, man? Then you’re gonna want to head to bed.”

Lance nods and skitters off—but stops at the bedroom door. “Wait. If your boyfriend’s on the couch, and the three of us are in the bed?” He frowns like Shiro’s answer might mean more than Shiro can fathom. “Then where are _you_ gonna sleep?”

“Not planning on it.” With a shrug, Shiro flops on the floor and leans against the sofa’s armrest. “I’ve got a watch to keep.”

  


* * *

  


Come morning, Shiro rouses to a hand brushing over the top of his head, with no idea when he fell asleep, slouched against the armrest of his threadbare sofa.

As soon as Keith’s up, he wrestles out of his rags, shows off the map of jagged scars littering his bulkier back and chest. As the shower rages, Shiro puts on the coffee and rifles around for Keith’s spare clothes. Kipped out in Shiro’s bed, the runaway cadets don’t stir.

In their pictures from before the Kerberos launch, Keith’s cheeks have a rosy, pinkish glow, a dusting of freckles. Now, when he slouches on Shiro’s counter with his old favorite mug, Keith looks ghostly ashen. For all he’s still pretty lean, his old black jeans might as well be painted on his thicker, longer thighs. His t-shirt clings to his skin so tightly that it’s practically see-through. There’s no hope of Keith ever zipping up his cropped red jacket, the one he loves so much.

“What about my Dad’s jean jacket?” Shiro jerks his head toward the closet door. “It’s too tight on _my_ shoulders. Might fit you perfectly, though? I know it isn’t red—”

“Maybe.” Glancing out the window, Keith looks like he could sleep for a thousand years and still be tired. His white bangs wilt over his face. “I’m gonna go out for a minute. Ask me after that.”

As Shiro watches Keith leave, he sees what’s drawing his Baby away from him: outside, the sky’s turning a freshly bruised shade of purple. Some of the stars linger, but pale sunlight peeks over the eastern horizon.

Shiro waits ten minutes, then pulls on his boots. Tossing on his jacket, he fumbles at the chest pocket, makes sure that the box is still there. He pulls it out, cracks it open with quivering hands so he can reassure himself, with complete certainty, that the ring hasn’t moved. Thankfully, it hasn’t. The light behind him glimmers off its golden surface and when he peers at just the right angle, Shiro can read the words etched along the inside: _“until the stars go black & longer.”_

As he heads out onto the shack’s front porch, he shoves the box into his hip pocket for easier access. As he tags after the single most important person in his universe and follows Keith’s footprints up the hill, Shiro tries not to think so hard about what he’s planning, or which ideas he has might be better or worse. As he staggers closer, he inhales deeply—

“I didn’t think I’d see this again,” Keith says, preemptively cutting him off. “An actual sunrise…”

Inhaling deeply, Shiro inches closer, but can’t make his tongue and lips work properly. Can’t make his voice spit up a single syllable, because what if he says the wrong thing—

“The places I’ve been, Babe?” Shuddering, Keith hunches around himself. “I wouldn’t wish what I’ve seen on anybody. Not even that idiot, McKay. And there isn’t much that I _wouldn’t_ wish on his smarmy, over-privileged…”

Picking on Trevor McKay should be easy. At least, easy enough for Shiro to join Keith in grumbling about how McKay, as a Garrison legacy, was handed so many opportunities that he took for granted when Keith and Shiro had to work themselves to the bone to get a fraction of the recognition that McKay got for showing up. No matter how sick he feels, Shiro should give Keith this one semblance of normalcy.

Even so, he makes it to Keith’s side without a word.

Keith doesn’t look at him. “I can’t remember—I don’t even know if I’ve been _planetside_ since we got taken off of Kerberos. And my head is such a _mess_ —”

“Keith,” Shiro croaks desperately, caressing Keith’s shoulder. “It’s good to have you back.”

Finally, Keith smiles, and it’s like getting kicked in the chest with sunshine. “It’s good to be back.”

“I never stopped hoping.” Gulping, Shiro wonders if he should say this. Unfortunately for him, his voice has decided to exist again and his mouth has a mind of its own: “After the Garrison lost contact with you, they said there must’ve been a crash. That maybe they underestimated how bad the landing on Kerberos would be, given its rotation? They said you must not have handled it well enough, you were too inexperienced—”

Keith coughs up a bitter laugh that sounds like empty liquor bottles smashing against brick walls. “One thing I _do_ remember? We sent a missive that the landing was a complete success. Commander Holt _insisted_. How could the Garrison even _pretend_ —”

“Because they had no idea what happened to you. But there was enough evidence of extraterrestrial involvement, likely hostile. They thought telling the truth was a risk for everyone on the _planet_ …” While true to what the Garrison said, this explanation tastes like blood and garbage in Shiro’s mouth. “I didn’t believe them.”

“Where did you get all this other stuff, then?”

“Long story, Baby. Not a happy one. Or it wasn’t until you got back last night.”

That makes Keith squint at Shiro. Although he’s still shorter, he doesn’t need to tilt his head back quite so far anymore. Frowning, Keith furrows his brow as if he can’t believe that this is happening. He reaches for the hand on his shoulders—but his metal fingers barely graze Shiro’s before Keith jerks them away. Hugging himself, he ducks his chin. He buries his left hand in the crook of his elbow.

“How did you know to come find me?” Eyes shut and head bowed, he whispers, “If the Garrison didn’t tell anybody what really happened to us? Then how did you know.”

Shiro sighs, gently gnawing on his lip. “I got a dishonorable discharge. Wouldn’t stop asking questions—”

“ _What?_ Shiro, no—you _didn’t_ —right now, Babe, tell me you’re—”

“I’m not kidding.” Keith trembles like he could vomit or start crying, like it’s killing him that his body won’t give him any release—but Shiro presses on: “I had to know the truth, okay? I couldn’t accept the Garrison’s lies—”

“Iverson took a risk on you, and you _worked your ass off_ to get where you did—”

“I made a _promise_ , remember?”

“You said you’d never give up on me. You made _me_ promise not to give up on myself. Then you—” Keith breaks off in a wounded half-sob. “You threw away _everything_ … because of _me_?”

“No. Not _because_ of you.”

Shuffling in front of Keith, Shiro finds himself on the receiving end of an expression that wants to be a glare, cold and steely. Instead, it flares up, hot and fast, and struggles to stay angry. Keith clenches his organic hand around his elbow so tightly that his knuckles go white. Without saying anything, he demands a better explanation.

“I couldn’t stay at the Garrison after what they did.” Looking his beloved directly in the eye, Shiro tucks Keith’s white fringe behind his ear. “I couldn’t stay with people who looked at a potential threat to the _entire planet_ and decided that it didn’t matter. People who lost three of their own and decided to do _nothing_. They wouldn’t even honor your alleged memory by getting people ready for what the aliens could do—”

“They couldn’t _know_ , Shiro—”

“They took information about a threat, and then _did nothing_ —”

“You don’t know what the Galra can do either,” Keith tries to snap and comes out pleading. “For all you knew, they could’ve _killed me_. So, you would’ve pushed the Garrison too hard and made them kick you out for _nothing_ —”

“No. For _everything_. Trying to get you back? Trying to prepare for these _Galra_ however I could? Without you here, those missions meant _everything_ to me, Keith.” Shiro wilts under the weight of the _Pointed Look_ Keith fixes him with—but taking hold of Keith’s shoulder again helps him say, “I knew in my heart that you weren’t dead, and I couldn’t give up on you—”

“You didn’t know _anything_ , though—”

“I knew _one_ thing. And I still do. Maybe not what you _wanted_ me to know, but…”

With a shake of the head, tossing his own long bangs off his face, Shiro curls his fingers tight around Keith’s metal wrist. As he drops to one knee, Shiro keeps his gaze locked on Keith’s. The earth yields beneath him, but Shiro won’t be swayed from tugging Keith’s left arm free.

Blinking desperately, Keith can’t make his lips stop quivering. “Shiro, what d’you think you’re—”

“I should’ve done this before you left.” He squeezes the cool, dry metal of Keith’s hand. “It’s the _only thing_ that I’ve ever been this certain of. And I’m _so_ sorry I made you wait—”

“Oh my God, what are you talking about—”

“About _you_. And _me_. And everything that we are together—”

“Shiro, _what_?” Keith wrenches his hand away. “How are you even _holding_ this thing? It’s not…”

He trails off as Shiro takes his metal hand again. As Shiro kisses his cyborg knuckles, Keith looks like he could faint.

“I love you,” he whispers. “Whatever shape you’re in. Whatever happens. Whatever these _Galra_ put you through, you’re still you. Still Keith Kogane. And I love you so much—I should’ve done this sooner, but since I didn’t…”

Taking in every detail of Keith’s face as if seeing him for the first time, Shiro promises, “As long as you’ll have me? I will fight for you. I’ll stand beside you. I’ll protect you from everything I can. Carry you when you can’t carry yourself. Help you shoulder whatever burdens fall on you. I love you—and I want you to _know_ that I am _always_ yours. Proudly so.”

Keith’s eyes are so wide, they could too easily pop out of his head. “You cannot be serious…”

“More than I’ve been about anything in my entire, sorry life. Keith, I…” Breath stuck in his throat, Shiro opens the box. Tilts it so Keith can see the ring. “Will you marry me? Please?”

Keith lets slip a noise that’s almost a whimper and his organic hand jumps up to cover his mouth. Shoving the cyborg hand back at Shiro, he nods. Tears tease at the edges of his eyes, glistening in the sunlight that bathes his face.

This is it, the most beautiful image of the most beautiful man… The moment that Shiro will always remember as the start of the rest of their lives and the time when he fumbled with Keith’s metal hand but Keith didn’t pull it away… This _one thing_ will keep him happiest until they can actually tie the knot and he sees Keith on their wedding day—

And then the ring snags around Keith’s second knuckle.

Groaning, Shiro tries again. He grits his teeth and twists—but the ring won’t budge.

“Oh, God. Try over here?” Keith gives Shiro his organic hand. “I don’t care if it’s the wrong side, just?”

Over here, Shiro gets the ring slightly past the second knuckle, but still misses the base of Keith’s finger. Experimentally, Keith flexes his hand, tries to see if he can live with having the ring hit in the wrong place. Grunting in pain, he can’t bend his finger all the way.

Shoulders drooping, Shiro sighs. “I have my old dog-tags? We could put it on the chain? Assuming you don’t mind.”

Cupping the metal hand around Shiro’s jaw, Keith nods. “It’s perfect, babe.” As Shiro leans into the touch, he chuckles. With his organic fingers, he tucks Shiro’s bangs behind his ear. “C’mon. Let’s get inside before our guests blow up your kitchen.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * Personal reactions/interpretations
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
>   * Comments made with the [LLF Comment Builder](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/post/170952243543/now-presenting-the-llf-comment-builder-beta).
> 

> 
> The author reads and appreciates all comments, and gets back to all of them eventually, but may be slow to reply due to trying to rein in the ADHD/anxiety cocktail.
> 
> If, for any reason, you don’t want to receive a reply, just put, “whisper” near the start of your comment, and I’ll appreciate it without replying.
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> * * *
> 
> As ever, I’m also on Tumblr ( **[amorremanet](http://amorremanet.tumblr.com/)** ), Pillowfort ( **[amorremanet](https://www.pillowfort.io/amorremanet)** ), Dreamwidth ( **[amor_remanet](http://amor-remanet.dreamwidth.org/)** ), Twitter ( **[amorremanet](https://twitter.com/amorremanet/)** ), and Discord ( **amorremanet#5500** ), and I always love talking about Shiro, hurt/comfort, gay shit, and Shiro.


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